The Via Lata Diaries
by liriaen
Summary: Roma, 2009: Old acquaintances are meeting in the Eternal City. For at the end of time, there's a prize to be to won, a price to be paid, and one or three lessons to be learnt. WIP. Lucifer, Jeshua, Michael and more. NOTE: m/m, slash rated M.
1. Angelus Domini

**Title:** Angelus Domini

**Characters:** Lucifer, Michael

**Rating:** PG-13

**Word Count:** 645

**Summary:** A meeting of old acquaintances in the Eternal City (a.k.a. Rome): At the end of time, there's a prize to be to won, a price to be paid, and one or three lessons to be learnt.

**A/N**: What if they met again, today? What if their priorities and objectives had, well, not necessarily changed, but subtly shifted? What if someone suddenly had a personal agenda (or one that looks like one)? - This (still growing) story is a very different beast from my other Bible stories. It will include more swearing, more indecency, more quandaries. It is written with the same love and respect for the characters, teachers, preachers, principles involved, but if you have the slightest doubt as to whether you can stomach post-Biblical m/m, then please save us the grief and don't read any further.

**Chapter Summary**: Funny how the high-pitched drone of Vespas seems to grow louder after dark...

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter One**

**Angelus Domini**

**~*~**

**-  
**

Tipping down his sunglasses, he says, "You look crummy." And he does. Lucifer gives him a quick once-over, then shoves his glasses back up. _Angels. Hopeless,_ is what that means. Not expressis verbis, but as good as. _Linen Armani, off-white, five years out of date and no shoes. Are you fucking mental?_

They're sitting at the outer left end of Bernini's colonnade, and Michael chooses to hear him not. "Like arms. Outstretched arms," Michael says, studying the ensemble. "The arms of the Church to embrace the faithful."

"Mh," Lucifer says. He takes off his glasses and starts sucking an earpiece. It tastes a bit greasy. "And to top it all off, the lovely street Mussolini built. Now there's an Axis of Evil." Squinting down Via della Conciliazione, Lucifer shakes his head, still sucking his glasses.

Michael throws him a sour look.

"What?" Lucifer bristles. "Just because we have him, I'm supposed to like his architecture?" With a grunt he shifts his weight from one arse cheek to the other, then sits on his hands, kicking his legs.

"So," Michael says, once the Angelus has tolled.

"What, so."

"Here we are."

Lucifer starts playing with his braid. "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

"Excuse me?" Michael looks down his nose, suppressing a flash of steel.

Familiar, that. Nice. "Nothing." Lucifer picks his nose, watches a few pickpockets on Piazza San Pietro. "Lovely sunset." _So, Mi'ka'El, who is like God, here we are. You always were the brightest of the host._ With that he wipes snot down the seams of his jeans. _Or was that I?_

Michael smoothes wrinkles from his suit. "He wants to meet you," he says, without further preamble. "I have cautioned Him against it but-"

"...his ways are inscrutable," finishes Lucifer glibly.

The angel blinks.

_Joke,_ Lucifer lifts his hands, then takes out a cigarette. "I'll have to consult my schedule," he exhales.

Not looking at him, not looking anywhere, not even at the stupid Obelisk, Michael narrows his eyes. _You will make time._

"Ooh." Affected fluttery wave. "'You will make time.' Say that again. I love being ordered about by men in a uniform. Even if it's outlet Armani. Did you know he designed the Polizia uniforms here? Armani, I mean. The fuchsia pinstripe is a dead giveaway. Now, as for the Carabinieri... _that's_ Valentino."

"I am losing patience, Samael."

"And I thought we were only warming up." Lucifer sounds dour. He takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Where," he says eventually.

Michael jerks his chin to point across the river. "The Ara Pacis."

The Altar of Augustan Peace. Good. That's good. Neutral territory. "Fond memories of the Imperator of his childhood, I gather?"

_He will let you know when you are to come._

"That sounds so filthy." Lucifer's lip twitches. "I like it already." _Asshole. I shall find him, if it please me. Else, he can wait till kingdom come._

"Very well," Michael snorts. "Lightbringer."

"Standard-bearer." It's not much of a greeting, and as Michael rises, Lucifer stares at the angel's feet. They are perfect. Bare and long-toed and perfect, and they've yet to touch the ground. Stretching, Lucifer raises his eyes to the statue in rumpled linen. He can be obscene in his coyness, a mask with alabaster lashes, so he crooks his neck and bows his head and fold his hands and says, "I am ready: like a wise virgin I have taken my oil with me, howbeit the bridegroom tarried."

For the fraction of a second, just before Michael vanishes, there's a hint of good old smiting in the air; an intimidation of fire and brimstone that, Lucifer thinks, rather smells like home-cooking. Static crackles. "And the great dragon was cast out," he sighs, lighting another cigarette. Funny how the high-pitched drone of Vespas seems to grow louder after dark.

He's curious what Jeshua wants.

---


	2. Ara Pacis

**Title:** Ara Pacis

**Characters:** Lucifer, Jeshua

**Rating:** PG-13

**Word Count:** 660

**Summary:** In which two gentlemen meet by the edge of the Tevere.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Two:**

**Ara Pacis**

**~*~**

**-  
**

The turnstile squeaks. He gently pushes with his hip until the thing slides open, making a deferential little clack. Already he's craning his neck, scanning the room when the fury in her glass cubicle starts screeching. "Signore! Eh, signore! Biglietto." He turns and stares at the woman. She mouths something, waving a paper slip. The motion sends the flabby flesh of her arm quivering.

What the... "Fine. Scusi. I thought it was late."

"Late, early," she snarls, "is no matter. That will be six euro fifty, signore. Close in fifteen minutes."

He shoves her a crumpled ten, snatches the ticket and, huffing too-cold museum air, wheels around to stride up the ramp. Disregarding signs and exhibits, he heads straight for the altar: just a few more angry steps now, then he can sense it, looming. Of course it looms; these are the Fields of Mars, after all. Any old ground will do, but blood-thirsty ground is best; at least the ancients knew. So he slows his pace and slings his jacket over his shoulder and closes his eyes, walking forward until the thrumming in his head tells him to stop.

Looking up, he can't help the whistle: even if he's not... awed, he's suitably impressed. If they put their minds to it, if they pulled their act together (or, quite simply, if they were beaten hard enough) the filthy little ants could produce a certain kind of beauty. It was the surprise of an idiot child, speaking its first sentence without a stammer, the scraggly drawings of a five-year-old, pretty only to her mother - but still, he thinks: for a few slabs of Carrara, this is... nice.

He walks around and studies the Altar, marvels at its conceit: what self-congratulatory splendour. He studies the architecture, too, the American's design, a fêted dialogue of marble, glass, and concrete supplanting Mussolini's idea of style. Why surely, Octavian's finest piece of propaganda needed a new house, once they'd pulled it from the mud. He'll have to point that out later, gloat in the sheer fucking beauty of it: Look, he'll say, behold, oh my Lord, two thousand years of Peace, most of them spent buried under corpses and shit.

The same as it ever was.

The visitor looks around, pulls out a cigarette and, without lighting it, waits. He hasn't been given a time. Not even a date. He just... knew. That, in itself, irritates the fuck out of him. Well, he shrugs. Couldn't keep away either, now could he.

He's just discovered Augustus-as-Pontifex-Maximus when he hears rapidfire Italian from the front desk, an avalanche of "We are about to close, you hear? Eh, stop! Stop!" answered by a mellow "That's quite all right," and "Why don't you tell the guards to close up and go home? It's been a long day, hasn't it, signora."

There's a palpable sigh of relief washing through the building. It resounds in the clanging of keys, in cash registers snapping shut, computers shutting down. Wardrobe doors are banging. There's the usual end-of-shift chatter, the shuffle of feet in sensible footwear. Perhaps he imagines it, but as they recede, the employees' voices sound light now, no longer tired. Giddy almost.

Shaking his head, he lights up. Fucking show-off.

He's aware of the other visitor long before he sees him. Then why does his cigarette slip and dangle as soon he lays eyes on him? Takes a few seconds before he remembers it, hanging from his lips. "And who do we have here," he says, squinting, pinching the cigarette away. "John Lennon, fresh from the Bed-In. Where's Yoko?"

"In New York, I believe." Jeshua smiles. He doesn't seem to mind stopping on the ramp, having to look up. His hands are casually folded in front of him.

No stigmata, Lucifer notes.

"Buona sera to you, Lightbringer," Jeshua says. His voice is warm and dry, like the evening outside.

"Rabbi," Lucifer returns, dropping into a mock-polite bow. He might just be about to snort blood.

---


	3. Museum Hours

**Title:** Museum Hours

**Characters:** Lucifer, Jeshua

**Rating:** PG-13

**Word Count:** ~ 830

**Summary:** In which two gentlemen meet by the river and Jeshua tells the Adversary, at long last, what he really, really wants.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Three**

**Museum Hours**

**~*~**

**-  
**

The air doesn't crackle with static. There's no ominous rumble, no movie-style flicker of light. Just two people past closing time, and while that may be remarkable, it's not out of the ordinary. The hall is often used for functions, meetings. Fashion shows, even.

Grunting, Lucifer brings up a hand to check for anything that might explode from the finely wrought ridge of his nose.

"I am glad you could make it," Jeshua says, hands still clasped in front of him.

_Could make it?_ Lucifer cocks his head and drags on his cigarette. "Of course," he nods, waving a hand. "It's nothing." _Oh fuck you, boy. Fuck you._ Bested him there, little Jeshua has. If it's all about free will, then it was Lucifer's choice to be here - that, and enough curiosity to kill a population of cats from Bast onward. "Wouldn't miss this for all the world, rabbi."

His thoughts must be louder than traffic, police sirens, firefighters and the din of a Saturday evening put together, and still, Jeshua smiles. "Thank you," he says, walking up and into the Altar's enclosure.

Lucifer's eyes follow him.

He could be one of the thousands shacked in some hostel tonight, your average long-haired archaeology student in frayed jeans and sweaty shirt and trekking sandals. He could be one of the many gawping, stuttering tourists that stumble around the Forum in the blazing heat. He could be a lapsed novice, come crawling to renew his faith and confess to some Polish prelate, up in Saint Peter's.

Lucifer watches Jeshua's fingers as they linger on marble. Like a blind man reading Braille.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jeshua says, looking back at him.

"What is." Lucifer's mouth is dry.

Jeshua laughs. If Lucifer could kill him, he'd kill him for that chuckle alone, so gentle devious mocking innocent complicit indulgent patient genuinely amused or... _What now, Jeshua, what?!_ "The Altar, I mean." Long fingers brush folds and faces, trail togas and trellises.

Planting his arse on the steps to the sanctorum, Lucifers shrugs and crushes the cigarette. "If you say so. I always thought Octavian was a particularly nasty little runt."

"Mmh, quite." Jeshua nods distractedly, still gazing at the procession in front of him.

"Besides," Lucifer points out and leans forward to peer into the enclosure, "wasn't it his fault you were born in a barn like some rube? Not that I've ever held that against you, mind."

Jeshua doesn't seem to enjoy the pun, and finally, finally, their eyes lock. _That was a small matter._

_Is that what you think?_ Lucifer rises and crosses over to Jeshua. "A small matter; not your first victory? Born to die, mortal, a slippery thing caterwauling about in afterbirth and donkey shit? You could have strangulated yourself, my poor purple wormlet, tied up in your umbilical cord. Maryam could have died in childbed and left you to starve. So many things to go wrong out there, near Beit Lechem."

"But they didn't."

Oohhh. Spoken with authority now. Defending the family name and all that. _But I am family, too, Jeshua._ The thought saddens him, threatening, as it does, to open the wounds of his loss. Lucifer swings himself up on the altar and crosses his ankles. "They didn't," he agrees. His displeasure over that could burn holes in the air. "And now kindly _illuminate_ me as to why we are here? I haven't got all night."

"No? Shame. I was rather looking forward to more of your polished wit." Slowly, Jeshua tears himself away from stone and climbs to sit next to Lucifer. "You haven't aged well, Morning Star," he remarks lightly.

The reply comes unbidden. "Well, you haven't either, boy," Lucifer snaps, unable to control his tongue. "Still trawling the world, desperately seeking validation. Or did you merely wish to tell me about Rome's Golden Age? Divine sovereigns marrying the soil and sacrificing like clockwork, and all shall be well, ad eternam?"

"I..." Jeshua's knuckles curl around the edge of the slab.

Lucifer catches a whiff of hesitation anger insecurity stubbornness fear. _Really. Fear?_ Now that makes him sit a little straighter. He holds his breath and waits for the other to continue.

Flicking back his John Lennon hair, running fingers through his beard, Jeshua turns to look at him. "I am proposing a trade." _I am serious, Lightbringer. Hear me out._ He seems to take a deep breath. "When we met in the desert, I believe you... expressed an interest in lying with me?"

It's a testament to Lucifer's fortitude that his jaw does not drop. A maggot or three plop from his left nostril, surfing on a smear of goo. _You... what. I... what?_ It still takes a second to filter through. Then the reptile is back, and it speaks. "In return for?"

"You will give me Juda."

Lucifer's laughter fills the hall. A rich, golden laughter that widens a crack in the floor and makes even the Vestals cover their chiselled faces.

---


	4. Roman Holiday

**Title:** Roman Holiday

**Characters:** Lucifer, Jeshua

**Rating:** R (I mean it.)

**Word Count:** ~ 1900

**Chapter Summary** In which two gentlemen get to know each other better, including in the biblical sense.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Four**

**Roman Holiday**

**~*~**

**-  
**

For as long as he can, he walks two steps behind him. His hands are jammed into his pockets. His mirth has evaporated, gone as suddenly and dramatically as it came. With hooded eyes, he watches Jeshua walking in front: as if he knew where they're going. Probably does, too. Annoyed, Lucifer hawks and spits and can't keep his eyes off Jeshua's easy gait, the rolling hips and jeans falling off his ass, arms swinging by his side, radiating energy._ Comfortable in that body, aren't you. But I've seen you fall and weep, little one_, Lucifer scoffs. _I've seen your death throes and blood and piss running down your legs. No need to prance for me._

Under the arch by San Girolamo, Jeshua slows.

Lucifer almost walks into him. "What?" he snaps.

"You are having second thoughts," Jeshua says over his shoulder.

"And you have a remarkable talent for stating the obvious," Lucifer quips. "I am Doubt; I thought you knew that. Of course I am having second thoughts. And third, and fifth, and I would be insane if I didn't." _After you've moved the game off the board? Does your father know? Or, more to the point: how can He not know?_ "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, remember?"

Jeshua squints into the sunset. His eyes seem to follow the arcs and dives of the swallows, nesting under San Girolamo's eaves. Then he moves on. After a few steps he placidly says, "This is not a gift, Morning Star."

The evening traffic on Via Tomaselli is ferocious but Lucifer doesn't hear. There's only Jeshua's lilting Aramaic, and it's filling his head. "Oh, I am quite aware of that," he replies, waving him on. _And I know that you know what your not-gift entails._ A theological quandary of major fucking proportions, with the potential for a very ugly fallout. Unless... unless the Name really has no truck with this. Sullenly, Lucifer starts kicking pebbles at Jeshua's heels - for, temptation and the imp of the perverse aside, how can one even contemplate bedding that... him... Him? Dead one moment, transcended the next? Coming to a backroom near you: the fuckable part of the Holy fucking Trinity. Yeah, right.

One in three. Three in one. The Doors song doesn't fit but Lucifer still starts to hum it. Would it put a huge dent in doctrine, he wonders, if someone from the Vatican saw them right now, the Son of Man with his jeans riding too low, soliciting rough trade, and the Adversary slinking behind him like a jackal? The image is... distracting, to say the least, until he bumps into him.

Jeshua has stopped and turned. "Via del Corso 166, correct?"

"Correct." Unamused, Lucifer blinks.

---

The ancient elevator creaks and it's too hot and everything is too close and Lucifer tugs down his tie. He stares at nothing in particular until the Fin de Siècle contraption shudders to a halt. "After you," he says, dipping into a bow. His deference lasts all of one second (or how long it takes to whip back up and smash Jeshua against the faded brocade in the hall) before it turns into a shove with hands and ribs and knees.

Jeshua' s lips won't part immediately. Lucifer has to bite and force them, but the struggle is brief _(for show, all for show, you little cunt)_ and once he's in it's like hurtling through an open door. Hungry and helpless, Lucifer starts to mewl, for Jeshua's lips taste like wine and honey, the wine of life, sweeter than anything and strong enough to send him reeling. His fingers twist into Jeshua's hair. Drunk now, he laps at Jeshua's tongue like a cat, greedy scratchy tongue wanting _more please more_, a breathless litany whispered into the Mouth of God.

He is tumbling into a well, soaring into the sky - weightless, pure light again until he tears himself away. His hands slam into silk wallpaper, leaving dents and scorch marks. "Oh no," he growls, "stop it. Not like that. If we do this," - his breath comes in angry gasps now, "we do it my way. It's you who is asking a favour."

Lucifer jerks around and walks down the hall. Doors are banging. Wooden floors are creaking. Let the Nazarene follow; it's all one if he doesn't - nevermind that Lucifer's tongue still chases the ridge of his teeth for a taste of Him.

Yakking, he steps out onto the balcony and spits into the street.

It's better out here, in the breeze. The air is thick with honeysuckle and jasmine, and while he smells cooking and exhaust fumes and a clogged drain somewhere, nothing is as pervasive as the steamy, heady scent coming from the roof gardens nearby.

Eventually, he hears the pad of bare feet on tile, and when he turns there's Jeshua leaning against a wooden shutter, giving him a _well what have I done?_-look.

The paint peels and sticks to Jeshua's shirt and Lucifer disgusts himself by wanting to pick it off like lint. "Listen," he snorts, gripping the wrought iron railing. "Keep Him out of it. Keep Him out or we don't have a deal. This is between you and me and nobody else."

"Of course," Jeshua smiles and crosses his arms. "You think my father approves?"

Lucifer throws his hands in the air. "What do I know. Why should I care? You keep trying to convince me He loves me still, but I'm afraid we can't have that, rabbi. I find it most unpalatable." Seriously, how can one contemplate bedding that, now that they're One again? "Between you and me," he repeats with the slightest inflection.

Jeshua nods, slowly at first, then firmly.

"Very well." Lucifer snaps his fingers and holds out his hand and, without looking, catches whatever it is that uncoils itself from the air.

---

Face buried in Jeshua's hair, chin digging into his shoulder, he closes his eyes. He savours the cramp shuddering up Jeshua's thigh, savours those mute grunts of discomfort, the twitches and twinges and little evasions.

Human enough to feel pain, powerful enough to stop it... this they already have established. "But isn't it funny," Lucifer croons and kisses the top of Jeshua's ear, "how we all want a little dissolution? The promise of _nothingness_? Come, rabbi, try it - you know you want to. Let me help you from your shell."

Something black and scaly rustles past his cheek, made curious by the slump in activity. The snake's tongue flickers, tasting the air, before she tightens around Jeshua's throat again. The heavy coils of her midriff lie across eyes eyes, making him blind, while her long, tapering tail still ties his wrists. She's not poisonous (not that it matters) but she is nervous, and the closer she can hold onto something, the safer she feels.

Breathing must be difficult.

And yet, Lucifer doesn't understand. What Jeshua does - or allows to be done - has neither rhyme nor reason. _Juda, yes, I heard you. I'm not stupid._ His fingertips flutter over Jeshua's flank. _But why now, after all this time? Has he suffered enough? Has his sin paled, compared to those committed in your name? Why now, of all times? What do you know that I don't?_ "Here," he pants, "lift your leg a little. I don't want to hurt you."

But of course he does, and he will: the options that intercourse offers are too interesting not to be employed. And whom is he fooling, anyway? Should he pretend they're on a romantic getaway? Close his eyes and tell himself he is loved and cherished, and that Jeshua wants him near? Not bloody likely.

Well, he thinks. Where there is no love, force does quite nicely.

---

Mornings make him philosophical; probably the clarity of first light. Studying last night's ruined sheets, he won't deny that carnality has its purpose, but... oh, had mankind ever got it wrong. _Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it._ They had liked that, hadn't they? Especially the last bit.

"I mean, when Lilith wanted to be on top, what was so terrible about that?" Lucifer mutters. "They were meant to take delight in each other," - he rolls over and looks at Jeshua's lips, parted in sleep, "not butcher each other at the first opportunity. And that's another deed I had nothing to do with. Wasn't my fault the Name liked mutton better than the fruit of the field." He traces those lips with his eyes. "But forgive me, here's the Messiah, a noble fool with his feet in the dirt and his head in the clouds. Such nice things you offered... Were you very surprised they did not want them?"

_Don't answer me, my lord. It's not worth waking up for._ Lucifer sighs and pets the snake that has curled up under Jeshua's armpit. It's warm there, and she has worked hard; why not snuggle up to him?

Simple pleasures. Animal instinct.

Human bodies on the other hand... created in His own image, but addled with urges so base Lucifer couldn't have invented them if he'd tried. The poor things want to have their itches scratched, and as soon as someone turns blue or the stains won't come out, they wail and repent and blame _him_. As if their pitiful convulsions meant anything to him.

He's given up trying to destroy them. He's convinced they'll manage on their own.

When he gazes around, the apartment suddenly resembles a tableau - a somber, lost Vermeer with motes of dust floating around. But it gets better: by his side lies a true fucking Caravaggio, a masterpiece with impossible rays of light on blood-smeared thighs. _Delight._ Lucifer's thoughts ring gently. _You are a delight, even with your hands tied and your eyes bound and your mouth taped shut. Why do you let me defile your temple, Jeshua? Laying yourself bare again, for what? Juda, really?_

The question disturbs his peace, so he gets up and gets dressed and walks into the morning.

He meanders past churches and drowsy Tabacchi owners who slosh soap-water all over the sidewalks. He steps around last night's stragglers and evades the first groups of tourists. He walks into a bar for coffee and cigarettes and scans yesterday's papers. Aimlessly, he wanders the entire length of the Pincio before he can bear to return.

When he comes up, breathless and swinging a bag of cornetti, he finds the bed made and a damp, freshly showered Jeshua dozing on the couch.

"I brought breakfast," Lucifer says. He cannot think of anything else.

"Mmh." Jeshua is not paying attention. Coiled on his stomach lies a big black lump that he shelters with one hand.

Lucifer feels tempted to grind his teeth. Instead he sits and starts eating one of the sticky, jam-glazed croissants. "Listen," he chews energetically, "about Juda from Kirjath..." He licks his fingers and lets the pause hang to better deliver the blow. "Truth be told, I don't have him."

With a soft, sleepy sound, Jeshua digs his toes into the armrest. "But, Morning Star, I knew that. " He stretches until a joint pops. "I knew that all along." When he cranes his neck to look up at Lucifer, his eyes are unpleasant. His voice is still friendly, though.

"I guess that just means you'll have to find him for me."

---


	5. Agnello brasato

**Title:** Agnello brasato

**Characters:** Lucifer, Michael, Jeshua

**Rating:** PG-13 (this chapter)

**Word Count:** ~ 2.345

**Chapter Summary:** In which warnings are issued and food is shared.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Five**

**Agnello brasato**

**~*~**

And he lies matted

Half in time and half in space

Through the rising incense smoke

I see him in a crowded room

I see him crossing the mountain range

If we see man at his most bloody

If we see man at his most base

Shall we point then and there

This is reality, this is his nature

Oh, what makes the pain more real than the joy?

Both are so mingled now and muddied together

To pull them apart

We butcher the essence and cripple its meaning

[:C93:]

-

The past days haven't been good. All of Rome has felt Lucifer's ire, the low throb of his anger. He can't help it; it's like a fatal frequency - a subsonic scream that threatens to rip through cells and membranes. Every time he's clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, men, women, and children have been yelling at each other, cats and dogs have wetted their owners' carpets, and some of the finer ruins - structures that survived the Goths, Renaissance popes, and World War II - have unexpectedly collapsed, leaving but rubble for the tourists to stare at. The river flooded, cheese was found to contain mouse shit, and the garbage collectors went on strike, so...

No, the past few days haven't been good. He's not proud of it, but fuck it: it's who he is.

After throwing Jeshua out, Lucifer has spent most of his time sitting on the balcony or lying in bed with one arm dangling near the cognac or soaking in the bath tub with his clothes on. His eyes have been closing and opening, closing and opening with the regularity of a drunk lizard's.

And the very last person - angel - thing... he wants to see right now is Michael. Michael in his bedroom in full Fiery Sword mode, no pun intended.

"Greetings," Michael says, while Lucifer sluggishly pushes himself up against the headboard.

"Hi there," he drawls and pats himself for cigarettes. _Why look at you. What happened to your Armani that you've got to don regalia?_ "Can you not hover, man? It's making me nervous."

"As you should be." Inexplicably, Michael seems to be enjoying himself. He smirks and looks down his nose at Lucifer (who can't be arsed to get up) and his feet don't touch the ground (again).

_What, my carpet not good enough for you? Your Lord walked upon it. Gave him a pretty rug burn, too-_

"You have met the Anointed," Michael says.

"Yes," Lucifer grunts. "And if you want details, I've known him, too." It's small and piddling, spiteful and cheap, but Michael's toothache-face is worth it. Ah, there, his cigarettes. Now where's the cognac? "Chill, angel. I won't mention that we didn't practise Safe Sex. As for the consequences of the act - repeated acts - for the _fides Nicaena_," he waves, "I wouldn't bust my head over it."

Michael looks queasy. He blinks and twitches, then resumes his stance. "Curb thy tongue, serpent," he growls and renews his grip on the hilt and seems to grow taller. "I am not here for sordid talk. I bear a message from the Name."

---

Lucifer comes to in a pool of bile.

As messages go, this one went too far, he thinks, both in form and content; as the sovereign Lord of a Realm he's not appreciative of being treated to the Angelic equivalent of a grand mal.

Gingerly, he prods himself. Checks if everything's in place. "You miserable cunt," he rasps, clawing through the haze.

The ignominy. _The nerve of it_. As he closes his eyes, something somewhere rumbles - a chunk of Aurelian Wall, by the sound of it. Too bad; he really can't help it. But he'll make the Son pay for this, he decides, crawling to the bathroom. He'll fuck him into tomorrow. He wants to see _tears_ for this one.

So he cleans himself up and sleeps for twenty-four hours straight before letting Jeshua know that,

_perhaps, a discussion might be had, a re-evaluation of terms and objectives if one felt so inclined, to be held at La Pergola two nights hence._

---

The view from Monte Mario is spectacular. Doesn't matter how often he comes here, how often he watches the lights wink on, Rome from up here is stunning. Its rich tones of ochre set against the evening remind him of Yerushalaim. Not that Yerushalaim is one of his favourite places, but he likes to think of a time when it had... potential. For those giddy few months, the city was pivotal - angels danced on the heads of pins and the world held its breath for the Messiah.

And then the Messiah came, and went, and the angels stopped dancing.

Lucifer's gaze wanders across the terrace. La Pergola is always so... tasteful. Furnishings, flower arrangements, nuances of light; not a single thing left to chance. He crosses his legs and sniffs his wine and tells himself to enjoy the evening.

Here's what's funny: how Jeshua's followers expected the end. Soon. Any moment. If not today, then surely tomorrow. The trumpets would sound and Judgment would come, and the Just would rise.

By daybreak and nightfall they gazed toward the Kidron valley. They longingly stared at the graves that encircled the Mount of Olives, and _waited_, the poor things. Then the last few who had known the Nazarene began to die. To their children, babes were born, and they, too, died without having seen the second coming.

_So sad. To realise that their God-bothering was getting them nowhere... instead the yoke became heavier, and life more onerous, and then there were the Romans, and Titus, and the Circus Maximus..._

Lucifer raises his glass in that direction. _Bring back the Circus Maximus, for starters. It used to benefit the faith._ The wine is exceptional. Chilled to perfection. A composition of musical notes that unfurl and sing in his mouth. _After all, everybody loves a martyr._

"Your thoughts are very loud, Morning Star," Jeshua comments as he lowers himself into the seat opposite.

"Your hearing is very fine, rabbi," Lucifer laughs, then wrinkles his nose at Jeshua's grimy shirt and wrinkled pants. "Which cannot be said of your choice of attire. I am surprised they let you in." He can smell him from here - the dusty, faintly rank smell of someone who has walked all day.

Jeshua shrugs and pours himself some wine before the waiter has a chance to. The man softly clears his throat and Jeshua looks up at him and smiles. "Do you think I could have some water, please?"

"Right away, signore. I'll bring the list of waters."

"No, no, just some tap water. That'll be fine."

Watching the exchange, Lucifer remains undecided whether he should cringe or snicker. In the end he does neither because Jeshua has already turned on him and sits very straight and doesn't smile anymore.

"I am disappointed, Samael," Jeshua says. "I didn't think you were a coward."

Lucifer gently swirls his wine. "And I didn't think you'd stoop to duplicity," he says acridly.

The notion of a miffed Lucifer seems to intrigue Jeshua enough to open his menu and study it. "I see where you could take offense," he remarks over the hand-milled paper. "But what is duplicity when dealing with the devil? Seing as you entered negotiations with intent to deceive?"

"Are you blaming the crocodile for its teeth?" Lucifer stuffs a flaky piece of bread into his mouth.

"Not at all." Ready to order, Jeshua nods at the waiter. "Reptiles will be reptiles; thus you are who you are. And I Am that I Am."

Jerking forward in his chair, Lucifer tries to dislodge a chunk of bread that suddenly wants to choke him. "I'll thank you not to mention the Tetragrammaton at table," he wheezes.

"Sorry." Jeshua doesn't look at him. Instead he serenely gazes at the service guy. "I assume none of this is kosher?"

"Scusi?"

"Nevermind. I'll be happy to let the gentleman here choose for me."

_Oh fuck you and the crucifix you got dragged in on. This is what I get for sharing my favourite place with you_, Lucifer groans. Strangely, the remark does wonders: dinner is pleasant after that. He picks the scampi tartare and tortelli with braised lamb and the black cod with a crust of San Daniele ham for them, and it's only over cheese that he carefully embarks upon the subject. "So I've been thinking," he says, waving a fork, "it may not be Hell where you are going... but you should have a guide. Like Dante had Vergil."

"Oh really."

"Really." He makes it sound so simple when, in fact, it isn't.

"It was my understanding that _you_ were going to find Juda, not I."

"Well. Not going to happen-" Lucifer dabs at his mouth, "-unless I've got help." To gain time, he finishes off the cheese and the second bottle and looks out past the terrace. It's true: there are topics he doesn't like to dwell on. Places he doesn't like to set foot. _There is a darkness deeper than Hell, Jeshua. Old things. Hungry things. There are places where life has no dominion. Would he be there, your precious Juda? I do not know. I've never had reason to care. _His thoughts peter out while he scans the horizon. It's the colour of rotten eggplant now, smog clouding the lights. Their haloes speak of rain.

Jeshua doesn't reply. He only cradles his glass and cranes his neck to get a better view of San Pietro, so Lucifer gets up and pays. He is already half across the foyer, signalling the maître d' to bring up the elevator when Jeshua catches up with him.

"I'm sorry," Jeshua says, laying a hand on Lucifer's arm. "I had no idea you were in a hurry. Was I mistaken in reserving a room?" Fifty percent gauntlet, fifty percent offer, and it's just as well that none of the peons understand Aramaic (although with Jeshua's thumb brushing over Lucifer's cuff link, the meaning is plain). "I've heard their suites are to die for."

---

Fuck it, but the thread count is obscene. Cotton softer than silk should be made illegal, Lucifer thinks, arranging the sheets to re-tie Jeshua's ankle.

"So I asked you to stop the nonsense and come down. 'Proved your point,' I said. 'Proved your point in flesh and blood, and now kindly knock it off and do what you're supposed to. Saving the world, or whatever.' Your head lolled a bit, this way and that, but that was it. No reaction."

Idly, he combs through Jeshua's sweat-soaked strands of hair. Too dark now to see those flashes of auburn. He likes them, has always liked them, especially under the sun when they flicker with copper.

The night breeze stirs the curtains, and Jeshua flops over, making lipsmacky sounds until Lucifer shifts to accommodate him. "So I watched the rain clouds gather and the crowds depart and I patted your feet and I said, 'They're leaving, rabbi. Those who have mocked you, those who have spoken against you in their great iniquity, they hurry home for Pessach. They have grown haughty and forgetful and will not mark their doors tonight; will you not show them the justice of the Lord?'" He rakes a fingernail down Jeshua's arm, enjoying the feel of muscle, the downy goosebumps brought on by the draught. "I know, I know," he sighs, "that was... blunt. You can tell I was losing patience. I mean, _the flies_, Jeshua. I don't think I've ever seen that many flies on a body. They must have liked you."

He feels Jeshua's eyes on him. Something in that deep well is stirring and he tries to chase it by pressing a kiss. "'Look,' I said, 'I might not agree with what you're trying to do, but I respect your courage. Your dedication. Really, I do. But what do you think you're accomplishing here?'"

"And what did I say to that?" Jeshua's voice is growing hoarse.

"Why, nothing. You were already... sort of gone, y'know? With the sun and the flies and the cramps and not being able to breathe... lack of oxygen in the brain, I suppose."

"What pretty lies you tell," Jeshua rumbles, too close to Lucifer's ear. "Be careful; one of these days you'll believe them. But I heard you, Lightbringer. You jabbered on and on... It was almost comedic."

"While you prayed and forgave them." Lucifer props himself on an elbow and snorts. "Right. How could I forget. 'For they know not what they do.' Trust me, they knew what they were doing, and they would do it again. They would throw you in prison or pump you full of drugs or turn you into a spectacle - hey, watch the peace freak jumping through the hoops! But you wouldn't get your full fifteen minutes," he spits, "because they'd need your slot to air more commercials." The barked laughter is joyless. He's bringing himself down now, millennia of cynicism clutching like a bog.

He hears the soft in and out of Jeshua's breath, feels him pause. Yet he flinches when Jeshua cups his face in his hands. "Suppose the world would have changed," Jeshua whispers intently, "changed so radically, so quickly that even you had to have seen it. Would you have bent your knee then? Would you have begged for forgiveness?"

"No," Lucifer flares. "No, and fuck what you're talking about." He struggles free and sits up. "Listen to me, Jeshua. Listen to me this once: you were a choice piece of mutton on His altar. Nothing more." He doesn't know where this conversation veered off the road. He can't even gloat now.

It's as if the sheer sadness of things takes the fight out of him.

He digs out a cigarette and lights up and drags hard enough to illuminate the scene, if only for a second. Jeshua lies supine with his hair splayed out, relaxed, boneless. He could be dead like this, just taken off the cross. _You're so damn fucking beautiful. Everything about you. Beautiful._ Shaking his head, Lucifer turns away. He smokes in silence while a rustle of sheets suggests that Jeshua twists to steal one of his cigarettes.

Lucifer exhales. "It was recently brought to my attention," he says quietly, "that the Name does not wish your current endeavour to succeed. But you probably already know that, too."

It starts to rain outside, and the drops sound fat and pregnant.

---


	6. Rintrah roars

**Title:** Rintrah roars

**Characters:** Lucifer, Jeshua, Azrael

**Rating:** PG-13 (this chapter)

**Word Count:** ~ 1.740

**Chapter Summary:** In which Lucifer's lazy Blakeian morning suffers an interruptus, Jeshua goes back to bed, and Death suspects there is no such thing as a free lunch.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Six**

**Rintrah roars**

**~*~**

_Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; _

_and the restrainer or reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling._

_It indeed appear'd to Reason as if Desire was cast out, but the Devil's account is, _

_that the Messiah fell, & formed a heaven of what he stole from the Abyss._

[The Marriage of Heaven and Hell]

-

_Blake_, Lucifer wants to say, _Blake wasn't so bad_, but then it's too early for that and his thoughts float around like a small shoal of fish, back and up and around until Jeshua throws back the duvet and makes them flit away.

Experimentally, Lucifer opens one eye.

"My god, you're unromantic," he calls after him, but Jeshua is already pottering around their small country of a bathroom, making these _Amen, amen, I say unto you, I'm just fixing my hair and then I'll be gone_-sounds - what's the word again, _ablutions_? - right, morning ablutions, so he probably doesn't hear.

_So fastidious, my little Jew boy_. Lucifer yawns and rolls over to sniff at Jeshua's pillow... when he notices something he doesn't like, and ten minutes later he's still crouched in front of Jeshua with his naked butt planted on tile.

"This isn't going to work," Lucifer says.

Jeshua throws back his head and exhales with a hiss. "What if you loosen the straps?"

"They're already as far as they can go." Lucifer wriggles closer to rest Jeshua's feet on his thighs. "Sorry," he says, prying off a sandal, "but you might as well call for a wheelchair. I don't see how you are going to get that" - he waves at the offending limb - "into a shoe. Not even those trekking travesties of yours."

He can hear Jeshua's teeth grind and looks up. My, my. Those aren't tears, are they? Granted, he wanted to see tears, but not the watered-down piss of frustration - especially since, in the language of pain, this is _nothing_. Incensed now, Lucifer tugs off the strip of towel wrapped around Jeshua's left foot and squeezes, thumb digging into the mess. The second his fingernail scrapes bone, Jeshua yelps and spasms, dislodging him with a kick that throws Lucifer against the wash stand.

"Watch it, arsehole," Lucifer snaps, rubbing his chin, then slinks back to get a better look. It may not be much, but... it's still impressive. The weight of Jeshua's body has driven the nail up against navicular bone and talus, ripping a path through all those tiny, flexible, finely wrought bits that form the human foot. Cold iron hammered past the cuneiforms, locking his metatarsals in a twitching state of shock. "Poor you." Lucifer smiles sadly and pats the crippled foot.

Jeshua's plantar nerve must be going haywire.

"So what now," Lucifer says. "I call room service for bandages? 'Oh, hello, yes, this is Eosforo in the Penthouse Suite; so sorry but my consort has suddenly decided to sport stigmata, terrible bother, I know, but could you send someone up with a yard or three of gauze, that's lovely, ta?'"

"Your consort?" Wheezing, Jeshua grips the rim of the bathtub.

Not a good idea, that. Idly, Lucifer watches as Jeshua loses his balance and slips into a landscape of granite and enamel. Your first reflex would be to throw out your hands, wouldn't it? Funny how Jeshua prefers to take the fall instead, cradling his wrists against his breast. The wounds in his carpals have forced his thumbs inward while his fingers still claw at the air. _So much for the use of opposable thumbs, eh?_ "My good friend the Meshiach, I mean," Lucifer says, contemplating Jeshua in the tub. How fragile he looks.

Nonsense; he didn't think that. He's merely offering his arm in concern. "Ah, such bravura. But really, Jeshua, you can come out and say it. It will be a relief, you know."

Jeshua closes his eyes and props his heels on the porcelain rim. "Say what," he echoes tiredly.

"_Fuck you. Fuck off._ Something like that." _How about 'Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani'?_ Chewing his lip, Lucifer eyes the stains. There's not a whole lot of blood, actually; if done right, crucifixions can be surprisingly tidy. The re-opened holes look horrific though. "And now he rebukes thee in his wrath and chastens thee in his hot displeasure. Makes one wonder, doesn't it?"

Throwing Lucifer a filthy look, Jeshua crawls past the offered arm and scrambles out of the tub.

_What? It's not my fault he's unhappy with you._ Lucifer shrugs. _I already feel like a broken record when I tell you to leave Him out of this._

"The Trinity is no onion, Morning Star." Using his teeth, Jeshua shreds another towel. "You can't peel away a few skins to get to the one you want." His voice is reedy, bubbling with blood inside his lung.

Lucifer shakes his head. "Well, fuck that. What do you plan to do about it?"

"Right now?" Jeshua coughs, "I plan to go back to bed."

---

_Lord,_ he writes, then crosses it out, _friend_ - he crosses that out, too, only a little less vigorously - _Jeshua,_

His pen hovers over the paper and drips slime while Lucifer gazes out over the city. What sort of note does one leave the Son of Man? "Mister God, this is Lucifer"?

_I need to go. Something regarding your misplaced disciple_, he writes in looping Greek letters. _Will let you know when substantiated._

He signs with a sigil and banishes the more repulsive stains before adding,

_PS, I was under the impression you enjoyed the amenities. Suite's paid for a month._

_PPS, Try not to die of gangrene before I get back - I would hate to miss that._

Fiddling with his braid he looks across his shoulder to where Jeshua sleeps, curled in on himself. Slowly, Lucifer pushes back his chair and walks over. He wants to sit and watch, wants to trace Jeshua's lips and push errant strands of hair from his face.

Before this is finished, he vows, he'll be the agent of another fall from grace. He'll be the hammer and nails of Jeshua's failure. Best do it now, he thinks: pick up the stake while Jeshua is weak and heartbroken. Use gentleness and kindness to tear him limb from limb. Show him what it means to lose everything - not for three days but for eternity.

Gradually opening his fists, Lucifer slackens. Deluded, that's what he is, tangled in his own wrath and pity. When he bends over Jeshua for a kiss, the knowledge burns on his lips like herpes.

---

Selah: so the Brioni was a bit of a waste. Cheerfully urban, the marriage of wheat-coloured wool and white pinstripe, it's sorely out of place in a vale where the ground sweats poison and the air reeks of shit. Lucifer groans. It may be too early to feel irritated, but there are people (in the loosest sense of the word) he doesn't care for, and Azrael ranks high on their list.

The problem with Azrael is that he doesn't know the meaning of restraint: give him a single soul and he'll want a genocide. Probably dreams of taking out Lucifer and the Name, too - else the chitoned git wouldn't dare manifest like this, with his talons wriggling an insolent _gimme_.

"My reward."

_For answering a summons? What are you, five?_ Lucifer quirks one eyebrow and spits. "You've forgotten the magic word."

"My reward, Lord?" Azrael smirks, and is thrown a lump he instantly starts to suck upon. Some might find the scene unsettling: the sculpted, doe-eyed perfection that is Thanatos, stuffing his face like a pig. Some will tell you that the soul, seeing the Angel of Death, 'falls in love and thus is withdrawn from the body as if by seduction' - well, not if she saw him eat, she wouldn't. "So," Azrael slurps and tilts the left ventricle to shake out the dregs, "what's he like in bed?"

"You are being indiscreet." Stubbing out his cigarette in Azrael's lunch, Lucifer turns the young girl's heart into a stringy old prelate's. "One of these days you'll discover it was shooting off your mouth that blew up your head; the two sit so closely together." As a threat it's petty and sub-par and Lucifer knows it, for unless Har Magedon isn't all it's cracked up to be, there will always be a Death.

A cloud, a pedlar, a thief... head or no head isn't going to make much difference. But it is imperative to maintain the status quo for a while - that's why they're here after all, among other things, meeting on an illegal rubbish dump at the arse end of Magliana. "Besides," he adds, "haven't you had him?"

Holding out the calcified muscle, Azrael mopes. "Alas, poor rabbi Jeshua! I knew him for, what, 48 hours? But not like that. I'll have you know that most dead make unhappy bedfellows. He was exquisite, naturally."

_Yet you couldn't touch him. Not like you wanted._ Lucifer smiles at the smoking rubbish underneath their feet. There's industrial waste and oil slick mixed in with the garbage, with the television sets and plastic bottles and broken dolls. It's not the Plains of Gehenna, no, but one day it will be, together with the rest of creation. Somewhere, something's burning. "So what about Juda from Kirjath?"

"What of him," Azrael shrugs. "I sent him on to you, didn't I?"

_Liar. I'll fill your empty skin with excrement._ "And yet he never arrived. Can you explain that?"

"Um. No."

Their eyes meet and lock for a near-endless second in which mutual aversion is expressed, some finer points of primogenitur are established, and safe passage is demanded and given - not without the usual round of haggling, of course.

As Lucifer gets ready to leave, Azrael doesn't move. He keeps squinting at a copse of pine trees, looking wistful. "Did you know Pope Leo X. caught his death here?" he asks.

"Really," Lucifer drawls. "At La Magliana. Who would have guessed."

"Picked up a chill after a day's hunt," Azrael says dreamily.

_Where's the art in that?_ Lucifer wants to retort, but Hell, why piss on Azrael's parade now. "I think you have too much of the black gall, old friend," he says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Have you ever tried Prozac?"

The Angel of Death only blinks and smiles.

---

tbc


	7. Temptation

**Title:** Temptation

**Characters:** Lucifer, Jeshua

**Rating:** PG-13 (this chapter)

**Word Count:** ~ 1.880

**Summary:** At the end of time, there's a prize to be to won, a price to be paid, and one or three lessons to be learnt.

**Chapter Summary:** In which two gentlemen have a conversation piece and Lucifer loses his footing. Part 7 of the Via Lata Diaries, a work of as yet indeterminate length and quality.

* * *

-

**~*~**

**Chapter Seven**

**Temptation**

**~*~**

When you torture the Anointed

You torture yourself.

[:C93:]

-

It's a sunny Saturday just before noon, and the ghetto does what it always does, come Shabbat: it turns into one big village square with nonnas lined up in the shade, their replaced and/or squelchy hips squeezed into camping chairs brought out by kippah-wearing grandchildren. People stop for a chat, and news is exchanged: who died, who married, who did something stupid, or funny, or both - scenes you'll witness all over the world, on the squares of Tel Aviv, in Buenos Aires, or on the parking lot of Canter's on Fairfax. But with its Fellini-esque habit of smothering you in the armpit of Mamma Roma, Piazza Giudia feels different. Warmer. Doughier.

Would it pass strange to find him here? Perhaps the boy is homesick? Lucifer scratches himself, then hastens to catch up with him between the synagogue and Portico di Ottavia. "Rabbi," he says and falls into step, "Shabbat Shalom."

Jeshua doesn't reply. He glares at Lucifer and looks beautiful and righteous and just a little angry, too, and Lucifer's toes already curl with pleasure. Jeshua's expression could mean anything, from _how dare you_ and _get thee behind me_ to _look angel, I'm really tired of this_, but then he nods tersely and leaves it at that.

For a few meters they walk in silence. The kid cleans up nicely, Lucifer has to admit. His hair shines, his beard is trimmed, and he is wearing dress pants and a pressed shirt as befits Shabbat. Of course, he could do without the smell of prayer that still clings to him like one of those cheap soaps they sell in the ghetto's _erboristeria_, and his tote bag is just as annoying, a hideous specimen of the burlap variety most commonly found in health food stores. Jeshua has tucked it under his elbow the instant Lucifer walked up, so it must be his tallit, folded in its pouch.

Oh, he has seen him pray before. He knows what it looks like when Jeshua speaks to Him: very tall, very straight, arms lifted in supplication. Like a man in a desert rain, he stands and sways a little, his calloused palms open to catch the drops.

_Rapt. Joyous. Pure._ Just thinking of it makes Lucifer ill. "Didn't know you still did that, bow and scrape with the garnish," he observes. "And here I thought you'd be in San Pietro."

Jeshua gives a small equanimous shrug.

_Oops. Tense subject?_ Lucifer cocks his head and stops. The stones opposite of Marcello's Theatre are sun-warm, so he pats a toppled pillar in invitation to sit. "You could at least go and rub your man Shimeon's gilded foot, y'know."

Jeshua hesitates, then settles next to him. A yard away, a dun-coloured lizard is doing push-ups, and Jeshua bends forward to study it until the creature stills and flattens against the rock. "Shimeon bar Jona did his best," he mildly says. "He gave witness of what he had seen, which was what he wanted to see, and died a miserable death for it; I will not have you malign him. What happened thereafter wasn't his fault. Nor is it mine."

Lucifer bursts out laughing. He splutters and neighs and the nonnas crane their turkey necks to see who would make such a racket on Shabbat. "Oh come on! The gold and silver keys? Infallibility? Exclusive apostolic authority? Don't tell me you're washing your hands of that," he snickers, once he's got his breath back. "Because you can't. I mean, in theory I approve; it's good to consolidate. Have a strong central rule set over the faithful. I would have chosen him over that guy from Tarsus any day; what was his name again? Paulus. Man was practically a communist. And we know how much the See loves _those_."

"Paul, yes." Now that the lizard has fled, Jeshua entertains himself by writing in the sand with a stick. His thumbs look okay, Lucifer notes. His wrists are still bandaged, though. "I never met him then. A philosopher, wasn't he."

"Nonsense." Lucifer guffaws. "A fool, that's what he was, exempting your flock from _halakha_. You take away the Law, you let in the rabble."

A not-smile crinkles Jeshua's eyes as he squints up and down the ruin of Marcello's Theatre. "Ah, what a time of portents! Hearken to the Fallen as he defends the Jewish Way," he says, with the same soft laugh that made his disciples doubt his wits. Infuriating, they called it - too much contentment over things they could not see, things they found repulsive: a good set of teeth in a worm-eaten carcass, a leper's gift of olives they _begged_ him to throw away.

"I don't. Defend." Lucifer clears his throat. "I'm just not impressed with the alternatives." _Although perhaps I should be, seeing as they allow me a life of leisure. For as long as they kill each other over whose God is best, you have failed, rabbi. True fact._

As if he hadn't heard, Jeshua plants his elbows on his knees and pokes the sand. "So, if we are finished discussing the Roman Vicariate" - he tosses the stick and rights himself - "let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? What did your friend say?"

Lucifer pats himself for cigarettes. "_Associate_, please; I refuse to call that thing friend." _He told me to say hello. He remembers you fondly. Can't wait to see you again._ He lights up and nudges the package along the pillar. "Well. Azrael claims he hasn't seen Juda since the day. Technically, that may be correct; Death doesn't keep them for too long before he sends them on their merry way. But Juda, getting lost en route? Now that's a serious case of mismanagement. And I swear it wasn't _my_ admin that bungled it." He enjoys talking like this. He flatters himself with the notion that it makes Jeshua twitch, even if it doesn't.

---

It's less than an hour later and he has no idea how they got here, how they got to this little room in the ghetto with its well-thumbed mezuzah on the door frame and the curtains that sweat sorrow and dust, and somebody please explain to him why, in the name of all that is fucked and rotten, he is sitting on the floor with his head bowed against Jeshua's leg, Jeshua's bony knee poking his temple, and furthermore it bears asking how he, _Lucifer,_ could lose it so badly just when he thought he was scoring a point, too.

His fingers travel up and down Jeshua's shin.

Moving the conversation here was a mistake. He should have resorted to ridicule. _God, what cramped lodgings. That you'd leave the Hilton for this... this... hole in the wall, I mean, have you seen the mould in the shower, that stuff is so thick it ought to pay rent._ The windows are almost blind. The floor is covered with a stained rug.

Lucifer closes his eyes. His face is slack. His lips move without sound.

He figured there'd be something wanton in it, and perhaps there is; otherwise he wouldn't have started it. He bloody well asked for it when he grabbed Jeshua's wrist and said, _Really, rabbi, bringing uncleanness into the House of the Lord?_ And then he just had to, had to sit him down and bring water in the bowl that stood under the leaking sink and unwrap Jeshua's feet.

He smiled up at him and took a sponge and dabbed away the pus and the dirt: Jeshua's insteps looked better, if not exactly good, so he washed and dried them carefully, then set his feet on a towel to keep them off the ground.

What effort it must have cost him, hiding that limp.

Jeshua watched and Lucifer could hear his breath, so placid and regular, yet with the tiniest hitch when Lucifer didn't get up but moved closer. When Lucifer sat with his back to him and rested his head, spine drooping, like a tired court jester.

He still sits there, lost and quiet as he mulls things over.

Perhaps it's the room. Fucking dismal is what it is, a waiting room where you stand behind frayed curtains until they come and get you. Death's antechamber. He meant to be flippant, but that changed once he took Jeshua's feet in hand.

_Tell me I'm wrong,_ he pushes softly,_ but I nailed it, didn't I? That's what is driving you insane. They've squandered your gift, and they continue to hate and kill each other as if you hadn't existed, and as long as they do, you will continue to suffer. You'll hang on your cross and watch your blood come over them, day after day after day._

His touch is fleeting. His fingertips ghost over Jeshua's skin. "Here's my theory," he says, addressing the ratty carpet. "One of You is running out of patience. And this planet is running out of time, which is a nice coincidence, I'll concede; very economic. So the culling is coming, but here's the Son of Man and he got a bit of a shit deal in the grand scheme of things, and he's sick unto death of the screams and he no longer wants any part of it. You've given what you had to give. Now all you ask for is Juda, who paid too high a price for his love, and you want to put some flesh on his bones and call his soul from wherever it has shattered and then you want out." He shakes his head. Although pompous as fuck, Michael's version had sounded a lot more diplomatic.

Suddenly Lucifer freezes because Jeshua has taken his braid and opens it strand by strand. "You present me with a dilemma, rabbi," Lucifer says, voice going flat. "Just when I thought I should applaud the Name for seeing the light. I would sit on Tel Meggido and cheer him on. Bring a camping stool and a bottle of Grand Cru and watch the damn thing burn." His head falls back. Jeshua bends forward and presses dry lips to the parting in his hair.

"But Morning Star," Jeshua whispers, "where's your pride? I thought you were the _Adversary_."

"Funny how I knew you'd say that." Lucifer rubs his eyes. "Go ahead and insult my intelligence."

Jeshua's hand crawls down to cradle Lucifer's cheek.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I might no longer have a vested interest in the fate of creation?" Lucifer snaps. "Or here's another option: perhaps I'll play along, if only to be the one who gets to destroy her fir-"

Before he can finish his rant, strong fingers pull his face toward Jeshua. The kiss leaves him weightless and dissolving and crying into Jeshua's hair.

_We should go,_ he pleads. _Please. Don't do this._ But Jeshua looks at him with a compassion that makes Lucifer fall upwards, and as they topple together, Jeshua enfolds him and holds him close and Lucifer bites his neck in blind protest hunger exaltation, bathed in a million suns now. Their heat dries his tears and cracks his lips and chars his face. His wings ripple, then shred, and he can only close his eyes as he plummets

again.


	8. So Glad for the Madness

**Title:** So Glad for the Madness

**Characters:** Jeshua/Lucifer, Michael, Azrael and ....

**Rating:** R (this chapter)

**Word Count:** ~ 3075

**Summary:** At the end of time, there's a prize to be to won, a price to be paid, and one or three lessons to be learnt.

**Chapter Summary:** In which it's time to be a-truthin' (or not), and Lucifer spends a lot of time on his back is slow in recovery. Part 8 of the Via Lata Diaries, a work of as yet indeterminate length and quality.

**A/N:** With apologies to: Lillian Gish, Cradle of Filth, Silkworm, Nietzsche, who all donated a sentence or two, and the wise, good, and beautiful Ruth Lapide, whose writings I can whole-heartedly recommend. And: thank _you_ for your patience, should you still be reading this.

* * *

**~*~**

**Chapter Eight**

**So Glad for the Madness**

**~*~**

With infinite gentleness

he lifts the wreck that is Lucifer:

now loose-limbed, now convulsing

with eyes pinched shut

broken wings trailing ichor

He puts him to bed like a child,

uncurls the cramped hands and kisses his brow

This close he can smell him:

Lucifer in all his sweetness

Lucifer in all his rottenness,

with a pulse like maggots

squirming under his skin

Babybird-greedy now, Lucifer opens his mouth

and mewls, blindly seeking Jeshua's hand

He gurgles defiance

he demands benediction

even if it tears himself apart

But Jeshua only holds him through the seizures

and wipes away the vomit

before he sets him free again

~*~

"Oh very nice," Lucifer says with a string of drool hanging from his chin. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, just say a word, and thy servant shall be healed?" He lies back and closes his eyes and massages the ridge of his nose. "Well I'm very sorry to disappoint, but that's not how it'll play out so get your filthy paws off me." Turning his face against the pillow, he mutters, "pervert," and slips away.

He rarely dreams, these days. He has schooled himself not to. Useless things, dreams, harping on the broken lyre of could-be and would-be, useless even as warnings because he _knows_ what was and what will be and he doesn't give a shit.

But Lucifer dreams.

He dreams of the beginning, of all despicable things, and once again the earth is without form, and void. Darkness is upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moves upon the face of the waters.

Think of a million million suns. Think speed depth and width immeasurable, faster, deeper, wider. Think of a singularity there is no word for, repeated a billion times in the flash of a second. And thus, nowhere becomes everywhere. Nothing turns into all there is. The rest is ornament - is embellishment because it pleases Him.

Man has come up with terms for the event, but no man knows what happened; they can't conceive of the terror, or of the beauty. Even Lucifer still grasps at thin, nascent air, his fingers mere _possibilities_, for he is a word to take shape yet.

There: light.

That is his form. That is his _meaning_. Lucifer learns its joy, its loving kiss, the sting of its absence, all in the nanosecond it takes Him to think, 'light'.

Lucifer knows how to paint the skies before he knows who he is. And when the lips of God touch him, love is redoubled: he is giddy and smiling, eyes closed now, an arrow flashing through the endless sky.

***

_So when did things start to fall apart?_ Jeshua's thought sidles in, soliticiously. He must have been eavesdropping.

"Get out," Lucifer mumbles. _Get out of my head. You came later. You have no right to be here._ Yet he allows Jeshua to spoon up to him and pushes back until he feels a resistance. It is well; it anchors him. _That was before your precious mankind angered Him. Before they existed, even. But then He had to go and breathe life into clay. Make mud the apple of His eye._ He snorts softly in his sleep.

When did things begin to fall apart? Was it when he started to wander? When he found a darkness he could not pierce, and the blackness whispered back at him?

No, it had begun up on high, in the opal brightness of His presence.

"I don't know what he told you," Lucifer slurs. "And I don't care why he would keep this from you but," - he twists around to mouth against Jeshua's temple - "you should know that I was set up."

***

_Look at me._

Knuckles pressed against the icy marble, Lucifer cowers in front of Him. He studies the veins, the unbroken expanse of stone. "Look at you, Lord?" It can't be. It is unheard of. It is impudence, and impossible.

_Do you not trust me?_ The Presence sounds amused.

"I trust you, Lord."

There's a pause and a rustle. _Then you need to trust me more, Samael. Come, raise your eyes. No harm shall befall you._

Lucifer clenches his fists and moves his head, fighting against neck muscles that know better. One is of Him, and through Him, but one does not behold Him.

His lashes tremble. They would be soldered shut rather than open upon the Unseeable.

He does not know what to expect; that he'll go blind, perhaps, or simply cease to be. He doesn't expect to be sitting on his heels with tears streaming down his face.

"There." _That wasn't so bad, was it? Dry your tears, shining one._

Lucifer just sits there, hands folded loosely in his lap. Through his tears he is laughing. "Yes. I mean, no," he sniffles and wipes his nose and laughs at himself. "It wasn't, Lord."

It's only then that he notices Michael, Michael by his side, watchful and discreet. Blinking slowly, Michael is. Showing the kind of dignity and fortitude that Lucifer never could muster, caught as he is in the rapture. "Mikha'el," Lucifer greets him. Michael only nods.

_Your brother,_ the Presence muses, addressing Lucifer, _your brother feels your younger siblings are not ready to make decisions of their own yet._

Lucifer blushes. He's suggested that, of course. Freedom of will. And why not? He plants both hands on the marble and bows until his forehead touches the ground. "They should, Lord. With all due respect. Do you not rejoice in love freely given? They can only give, truly _give_ when they know what it means to withhold."

"They have everything they could possibly need," Michael says. "The waters are sweet. The fruit grow for their plucking. Why tender them power?"

"Not power." Lucifer shakes his head. "Just the freedom to embrace the Name because they have the choice. Not because they're chattel."

_Still, they'd need rules._

"Obedience," Michael says, before Lucifer can get a word in.

***

But what miserable little critters they had turned out to be.

Ingrates. Heedless, mindless children that didn't spare a glance for what they trod underfoot. Hungry, always hungry, not content with the fruit of the field. Michael gritted his teeth and kept throwing Lucifer filthy sidelong glances, as if their aberrations were all his fault.

Perhaps they were.

But those were the pitfalls, were they not? So he went on storing his faith in the Name, because what God would want his children to be slaves? Only the dullest kind of idol made of clay, that's what, content to be dribbled with food and oil, and a little blood on feast days.

_Obedience._ He would remember Michael's sneer when the day came and he stood girded for battle.

***

"I only did as He bade me," Lucifer says, looking at the ceiling.

Jeshua sits up and crosses his legs at the ankles. "You led them astray."

"No." Lucifer turns toward him. "No, I did not. The tree... see, the tree was Michael's idea. Obedience. But it was just a fig tree, any old fig tree, nothing special about it, not the Secret of Life, nothing to tell them how to become as God." He is whispering himself into a fever, crouching and crawling up even if his eyes won't meet Jeshua's. "And so I asked her, what is this with you and your God, what did He tell you, and she said all this was given unto them, into their hands, and they were as masters of the place - save this tree, she said, for they must not eat of it nor touch it lest they shall surely die. But it's just a tree, I said. Look, I can touch it; it harms me not." Something in his back contracts, and like a snake he curls sideways.

For a second or two he's about to bite the pillows, or Jeshua's arm, or whatever is near because his spine threatens to whip back in a spasm. He breathes his way out of it and tries to burrow under Jeshua's side, because everything is too bright and he can't abide the light now.

"Shrewd and crafty, were you not," Jeshua says softly, fingercombing Lucifer's hair. _More subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made._

He relaxes by increments, with every brush of those unsentimental, carpenter's fingers. "Yes," he says at last and closes his eyes. "yes I was. But I grew sick of it. And neither was my place found any more in Heaven."

***

It's back in Babylon, after he's walked out on them, after he told them to fend for themselves and stop their whining and shove Hell up their arse, that he finds he is tired. Tired and in pain.

He idly bats at the rat that keeps returning to try and gnaw his foot. He hasn't been able to find a spot in the shade - those go first, and he couldn't quite conjure himself from his cot before sunrise, so all the good places are taken when he limps into the square. It's still early, though, just before noon, and the market is buzzing. There's the smell of fresh bread and hot tea, of spices freshly roasted. There's the blood of goats and lambs in the gutter, humming with flies - _warm and salty and he wants to stick his face in it and paint his brow and throw himself against Heaven and scream_ - but then he withdraws into his cowl, drifting off, jerking awake only when the rat manages to take a bigger bite.

Soon his jaw trembles with every breath. His head is full of mist, but it's not enough for that final descent into madness. Not for him, blessèd insanity. It'd be no use now, howling and tearing his hair - not when it had been his decision to leave... his express wish to resign...

... and two noes still don't make a yes. No matter which way Lucifer plays this, there can be no reconciliation. The Name baited and goaded and _tripped_ him, He moved him like a chess piece and cast him from Him without another thought. Simple as that. Expendable. Faithful in Hell, a minion still...

No, thank you.

There: a ching in his beggar's bowl.

Lucifer doesn't open his eye, the good, unclouded one. He knows it's only a brass bit - too little to buy himself half a loaf or a small measure of wine - yet the donor hovers.

"Brother." Someone bends over him, providing a welcome slice of shade. "O brother, my heart breaks. Look at you, sick of the serpent's poison; a captive now, who drew the hardest lot-"

The voice is soft. So soft. Balm for his soul.

"Come," the voice says, "come with me," and Lucifer silently bubbles with relief. Euphoria washes over him as the yoke of freedom is lifted, and he rises to nudge the fingers that peel back his cowl. He keeps his eyes wide shut and smiles like an idiot - smiles, smiles, even as a second rat lumbers up to get dibs at his foot.

He is almost too gone for his brother's kiss, and nothing has prepared him for this, for the gall and wormwood spilling into his gorge like a bucket of semen.

Struggling for air, panting against Azrael's peach-fuzz cheek, he pulls himself away, digging a leper's claw into Azrael's arm. "No," he hisses and bares long teeth and bleeding gums, "no. Not you." He shoves at Death and scrambles aside, fighting to keep his heart inside his breast.

"Fine." Azrael sniffs peevishly and flicks dead skin off his robe. "Just don't say I didn't offer."

***

_But he could not have taken you._ With two fingers, Jeshua traces veins on Lucifer's arm, above the blanket. _He wouldn't have dared._

_He took you, the Anointed,_ Lucifer replies, head tucked against the spot where Jeshua's robes used to close. There is no wrath in him now, no ire. Only weariness. _He took you and he loved every fucking second of it. But you cannot fault him; that is who he is. That is how he was made._

***

He is whole as he strides into the hall, whole and bare. He is resplendent now, tall, a muscled panther, skin gleaming with costly oils. A number of many-teethed things mill, press, and screech, squabbling and slavering in their discontent, but Lucifer destroys them without a glance.

They're all here: the little demons and the Dukes of Hell... the magnificent wings of the Firstborn and the stumps of their brood... the proud and the vengeful, together with an unformed, malformed, sniffling, squelching army of abominations that drag clawed feet across his obsidian floor.

"Would anybody like to say something?"

He steeples his fingers. His tone is mild. He expects nothing; certainly not allegiance, even where it is owed.

"Well?"

The silence hangs, then drips from bone-white rafters.

"Thank you," he says, sloppily spreading his wings, one leg swung over the armrest. "Dismissed." He watches them turn, then shuffle away with the uneasy gait of traitors. Cleaning his fingernails he says, "Not you, Azrael."

Death sniffles unctiously, hands twined in front of his breast. "Yes, brother?"

"_Lord._"

Azrael shrugs and bows. _If it makes you happy_. "Welcome back, Lord," he says. "Mine eyes, they gladden, now that Hell may once again bask in your divine presence. Allow me to say this was a most _joyless_ interregnum-"

"Ssht. Regarding that which you have seen," Lucifer interrupts, baring a fang, "we shall not speak of it. Ever. To nobody."

"Shan't we?"

"I should very much doubt it."

"Very well, my Lord." The Angel of Death puts a hand over his heart, batting his eyes like the whore he is.

***

Lucifer has no idea when Jeshua got up; all he knows is that it's too early. But curiosity gets the better of him, and once he's found a t-shirt and boxers, he follows the smell of coffee. Already, the sun is beating down on the small breakfast table Jeshua has moved onto the balcony, and Lucifer drags himself out to sit. With the plates and the cups and the cornetti and the bowl of strawberries - _strawberries_, for fuck's sake - it looks so... so domestic he wants to hurl. As a matter of fact, he does, retching a tidy squall of blood and millipedes into the rain pipe.

Jeshua folds his newspaper and frowns at Lucifer. "How sick are you really, Morningstar?" Jeshua asks and pours espresso for him while Lucifer casually wipes his mouth and sits.

"What's it to you," Lucifer croaks, stirring four spoons of sugar into his cup.

"Well, let me put it like this; I'd like you to be hale enough to uphold your side of the bargain."

Cut and dried, that; at least Jeshua isn't riding the compassion ticket again. Automatically, Lucifer adds another heap of sugar. "Your concern is touching. But I'll have you know I am as well as I ever was." Which is a fat old lie; ever since the rabbi showed up - Lucifer will be damned if he calls it a Second Coming - things have been growing worse. "And who says I am compelled to uphold anything?"

"I do." Jeshua throws him a handsome _fuck with me and Seraphim will rip your spleen_-look, something Lucifer never expected to see this side of Meggido. Then his expression softens. _Samael, please. Do you think I don't notice? Your episodes. The vermin. The weight of your melancholy. Your soul is screaming for help. Will you not stop fighting me?_

_I have no soul to speak of, boy. And you, you've been dead and buried. Will you not tell me what Death did to you?_ The thought rings obscenely, because Death is obscene. Also, it's a pretty cheap shot.

Jeshua puts his cornetto back on the plate and licks crumbs off his fingers. "Without death, life has no meaning," he says, studying the pastry.

He didn't twitch now, did he? "Without darkness, light has no meaning," Lucifer retorts. _But then I was Light. I still am, Jeshua. Not a wave, not a particle. Just plain old Lucifer, still asking why_.

"Not 'why', Morningstar. The real question is, 'wherefore'?"

Ah, here we go again: it's Rabbi Jeshua's Talmud Hour. "Yeah, yeah," Lucifer waves, "whatever." He can't bring himself to eat anything. Instead he watches Jeshua pick a strawberry. He watches him dip it in sugar, watches him lick it before the fruit disappears in his mouth.

"What I saw last night." Jeshua takes another strawberry. "Is that what happened?"

Lucifer gives a shrug that defies his current anatomy. "Let's say... in parts."

"And I'm supposed to find out which?"

"That's the beauty of it, isn't it? I don't need to remind you I'm a compulsive liar." He barks a laugh and starts spooning treacly coffee. "Although I can't say I give a damn whether you believe me or not."

"Oh but I think you do," Jeshua says. _And you sounded very different, around three a.m._

The tiny spoon scrapes the bottom of the cup. Half-melted grains of sugar keep cracking while Lucifer stirs. "Well," he sighs piously. "It's a hard world for little things."

But his attention must have been wandering, because the hand in his nape catches him unawares, hot and firm in the back of his neck, sending jolts through his body and hurting his spine. Coffee spills across his lap. Surprised, Lucifer opens his mouth. There's Jeshua's face, not an inch from his. This close, he smells rather than sees him: there's espresso and fruit sugar and pastry, there's soap and incense and the myrrh given to Jeshua when he was but a child. Lucifer does not know what he's doing; he kicks out, once, and topples the table. Things fall. There are shouts from below, but he can't make out the words.

Suddenly, the ever-present whine and stink of Vespas is gone. There's dust and dung instead, wild terebinth and styrax. Lucifer's struggle is brief: they are no longer in Rome.

"That," he says thickly and lies back on stony ground, "was unnecessary."

Jeshua stands tall, clad in a light-blue simlah, looking down. "Sorry about that." He's hugging his elbows and frowns. "I got the impression you were playing for time."


End file.
